Help! It's Raining
Relatives!

How our rain-drenched trip to the
Passion Play changed my perspective on hope...

Recently
we celebrated a family reunion. Now, you must understand these have
never been my thing. In fact, I briefly considered skipping this one. I
told Ramona that I had other plans. Plans to go fishing. Plans for peace,
tranquility, and trout. She said, “I grew up with these people. You go
fishing and you might as well just take your parka and stay the winter.”
So, after a long walk and much prayer, I decided to take her advice.

On Thursday night the relatives began
arriving. They came by the carload carrying large photo albums. There was
hugging. Laughing. Picture-taking. And…did I mention the hugging? We
guys stood around talking about golf and the rainy weather. The ladies
took more pictures, planned our Friday, then hugged each other repeatedly.

Late
that night, as darkness came down, the dreary drizzle picked up. “Maybe
we should call off the reunion,” I suggested, standing at a window
squinting at the sky. “I think I hear someone building an ark.”

“Very
funny,” said Ramona, putting an arm around me. I looked down. And
noticed that there were tears in her eyes.

“Was
it something I said?”

“No,”
she replied, “I’d just like to…can we pray together? I need to talk
to God.”

Staring
at the clouds, she reminded me of some things we’d been trying to
forget. Expensive tickets for tomorrow night’s Passion Play. An outdoor
performance that a week of rain was washing away. “I’ve been looking
forward to this for months,” she said. “I want my family to see this
play so badly…the story of Jesus…His miracles…His resurrection.”

I
didn’t need to ask why.

Huntington’s
Disease is a daily reality in her family now. Death is a certain way of
life. The skies, once bright and blue, were clouded with uncertainty now.
One after another, three siblings had been diagnosed. “Only God knows
how many reunions we have left…down here,” she said, taking my hand.
“I want this one to be memorable.” Then she prayed aloud for her
brother Dennis, who lay in a nursing home, curled up in the fetal
position. And for her two dear sisters who had come to reunion. Ramona
prayed that their bright personalities would keep shining past the ravages
of this awful genetic disease.

And
she prayed for sunny skies.

I
listened.

But,
I must admit, my faith was smaller than those drops of rain pelting the
window.

Friday morning dawned warm and hot and sunny.

In
Florida.

But
where we live the rain was now a torrent. Four inches in two days. A
record, someone said. Ramona prayed again at breakfast and at lunch. The
skies only opened wider. That afternoon we piled into our canoes (I’m
exaggerating here) and drove to the nearby town of Drumheller. “I guess
this is what they mean by a car pool,” I told my wife. She didn’t say
anything. So I decided I’d lighten the atmosphere with a good joke.

“People
here don’t suntan,” I said, “they rust.”

No
one laughed. Not a soul. I turned the windshield wipers higher and tried
some others.

“At
least we won’t have to water our lawn this year. We’ll just drain
it.”

Nary
a snicker.

“We
have a water shortage. It’s only up to our knees.”

Not
a sound.

“We
had a short summer this year. It came on June 8.”

Again,
no one laughed.

We
finally docked our canoes at the Royal Tyrell Museum, known worldwide for
its huge collection of dead dinosaurs. For twenty bucks the whole family
can view the remains and listen to lifeless speeches. After an hour this
is about as exciting as watching cheese mold. So
I gathered the younger cousins around and made up a speech of my own:
“Sixty kajillion years ago (give or take a few months), this
Thingasaurus used to roam the hills, eating insects and tomatoes and small
children. In fact, that’s how they achieved extinction. They kept eating
their kids.” Then I made frightening noises and chased the children with
my claws outstretched.

At six o’clock we exited the museum through
the gift shop (convenient isn’t it?) and I couldn’t my eyes: The sun
had poked through.

Ramona
didn’t seem so surprised. “I thought so,” she said, grinning.

A
few miles from the dinosaur bones we sat in a natural amphitheatre, the
sun warming our backs, our umbrellas unopened.

For
only three hours that weekend the sky held back. For three hours we
watched the story of Jesus unfold. We saw Him offend the Pharisees. Laugh
with children. Heal Mary Magdelene. And we watched in horror as they
bolted Him to a cross. The angels turned their backs. The crowd jeered and
walked away.

Then…He
took the world by surprise.

On
either side of me sat my wife’s two sisters. Women, who, along with
their husbands and children, desperately long for healing. But it hit me
that night that they had something far better. They had hope. A hope you
will not find in a museum filled with bones. But in a place where the tomb
is empty. In the simple story of a passionate Savior who died to heal the
world.

In the parking lot, Jeffrey noticed my solemn
face. “I saw Peter backstage,” he said. “He was smoking a
cigarette.” We laughed out loud together. “If any of the disciples
would be smoking a cigarette,” I said, “it would be Peter.”

On the way home, the sky
opened once again, and the rain descended. But we didn’t mind. As I
punched the cruise control a car passed us, it’s license plate bearing
the one word that best summed up our day: HOPE.

“Look,”
I said to Ramona. And she did.

“You
glad you didn’t go fishing?” she asked, with a twinkle in her eye.

“I sure am,” I said. “I’d choose a
family reunion any day.” Then I added, “Would you mind praying about
tomorrow? I’d sure like to go golfing.”